to loathe, or to love
by Dorminchu
Summary: The sparrow and the crow. A love story, of sorts.


The girl stumbles down the mountain. Her feet are numb all over from the snow soaking into her boots. She remembers something Eren was talking about just this morning. It had to do with frostbite, she knows this. Her brain is fuzzy. She wonders if he was right. Will they really turn blue, will they wither and turn black and fall off? She hopes not. She doesn't want to be disbanded from the Corps, a useless, helpless cripple. This thought is a promise and it keeps her going.

The shape of the outpost comes into focus, a dim blue outline in the fading light of dusk. There's someone sitting on the snowbank that has accumulated between road and earth with a lantern in hand, curled up into a ball. The orange-red light is gentle against the dark mass of trees in the distance, the heavy snowfall. Death is a silent promise.

—Ymir! Krista cries out without thinking. The air tastes sharp, bitter in her lungs. A monster in its own right. In this night, this moment, everything can kill.

The figure looks up. Stands with some difficulty, approaching, stiff from cold. Krista knows this gait, sighs in relief. The air bites at her throat again.

—Daz is in the infirmary, Ymir tells her. He'll be fine. Don't worry your pretty little head.

The two of them retreat into the outpost and share no more words until they're safely indoors.

―How did you get him down? Krista asks, rapid-fire.

―Without maneuver gear, Ymir replies, just to see the look of incredulity on the other girl's face. Annoyed when it doesn't show. Fine, she says testily. I'll tell you, because you're a smart young girl and we understand one another.

Ymir pauses, letting the suspense build.

―Well, what did you do? Krista demands.

―I climbed down.

Without maneuver gear, in the middle of winter. Krista must think she's lying. If only it were that simple. But Krista doesn't say anything, just stares with her icy blue eyes, demanding a proper explanation that cannot be given. Ymir is agitated again.

―I saved your life, Krista. His, as well. I didn't have to, and I won't ask for anything in return but your honesty.

―Why should I trust you?

―Because I pulled a really stupid move back there, Ymir says, scowling. Don't you get it? I probably shouldn't have saved him, but I made a choice. I did it anyway, not because you asked me to, but because I wanted to.

―What does that have to do with anything? Krista presses.

And Ymir snaps.

―I'm not the one running from myself, Reiss.

Krista stiffens, takes in a breath. It is Historia who exhales.

―So you know who, and what I am. Why even bother asking me?

―I want to hear it come from your mouth. No one else's.

It is an age of silence that passes. Krista implores herself to reconsider but she's tired. Weary of running, hiding, feigning smiles and goodwill. She submits to her own resignation with one simple word:

―Historia.

Ymir is quiet. Her slight, dark eyes, wide, almost fearful, hopeful.

―What did you say? she asks, as if willing her to speak, daring her.

―My name is Historia Reiss.

The silence approaches some deafening crescendo.

Ymir blinks. Blinks again. Opens her mouth, closes it and opens it to say:

―Is it really you?

And Historia nods and smiles, and then she laughs and watches the picture of Ymir blur behind her wet eyes. She reaches out to her.

It is not Ymir's first kiss. It is not their first kiss, nor the first time they have been alone in each other's company, but it is the first time they've come close to honesty. And that is what makes her tremble. There will be no interruptions, and the thought begets a wanting ache in her belly, in her heart. Historia tastes like salt and simple humanity, not blood and ash and innumerable regrets; she could let herself drown in the sweetness of this moment.

Could.

―Ymir, Historia sighs when they draw apart, clutching her shirt, drawing her close, catching fistfuls of fabric so she has to lean down into her. A blush paints her fair cheeks.

―Yes, Ymir murmurs, trailing kisses down the side of her pale, scarless throat, yes, anything you want.

Historia shivers; Ymir's mouth lingering on her skin as she speaks:

―Stay with me, she whispers. Please.

―I can do that.

Historia just holds her tighter.

Ymir's skin is lighter than Historia expects under cloth, chalky and sick looking, as if untouched by sun. There are intricate scars running down her face, her neck, her spine. Historia reaches out with the intent of gently passing her hand along one and Ymir doesn't protest.

―What did this to you? she asks softly.

―An accident, Ymir says. "It's noth― She hisses as the other girl's fingers trail up the final notches of her spine.

Historia stops, snatches her hand away like she's been scorched. Her eyes are wide and blue and wary.

―Does that hurt?

―No. Not anymore, says Ymir, wincing. Stopped years ago.

The girl frowns.

―If it bothers you, I'll stop.

Ymir sighs weakly.

―I promise, it bothers you more than it does me. But she flinches as she says this, subconsciously shying away from her smaller hands. Historia waits.

―Fine. But please, tell me if you need to stop.

Ymir nods curtly, watches Historia's fingers trace patterns across her naked skin.

―I don't bite, Ymir says quietly. Historia does not smile.

―I know.

Her hands are delicate, callused. She's a living paradox, harsh and gentle, fine-boned but tough enough to hover in the top fifteen of their corps. She's not frail.

Ymir is a different girl in this moment. She looks almost guilty as her shoulders hunch, back against the wall with Historia reposed in her lap.

―You all right? she asks. Historia nods.

―Fine, she says. I'm fine, Ymir.

The other girl seems to relax a little.


End file.
